The Steele Codex - Story 6
by Camargue
Summary: This is the sixth of my tales of what happened to Remington and Laura after the show ended. Can Laura and Remington work together and live together? Read this and see what you think. My stories are not being published in chronological order, but that won't matter as they can all stand by themselves and you won't miss anything if you haven't read the others.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Remington Steele climbed out of his limousine, tapped twice on the roof and watched Fred drive away. He turned and, clutching his leather sports bag, entered the massive Beaux-Arts building of the Los Angeles Athletic Club on Seventh Street in downtown Los Angeles.

The élite private institution was the foremost sports club in Los Angeles, founded in 1880, and catered to LA's movers and shakers and those on the city's social register. If he had thought about it, Steele would have smiled at the winding road that had led the one-time street urchin from Brixton to now move in such company. Membership of the Los Angeles Athletic Club, just like the limo or the agency's season tickets to the Los Angeles Raiders, was one of the perks that came with playing the rôle of Remington Steele – debonair man about town, adviser to mayors and police chiefs, reputed former member of the intelligence services and now the city's most famous private investigator.

Cheerfully hailing the doormen and various staff members, Steele made his way through the foyer – all marble and dark wood – and up towards the men's locker room. At just after nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning, there were few members of the club in attendance, but Steele nodded greetings to one or two vaguely familiar faces as he passed along. After changing, he made is way to the sixth floor basketball court.

The enormous, double height room was flooded with mid-morning California sunshine. After stretching a little, he made his way up a side stairway to the indoor running track which curved above the basketball court at seventh floor level. Settling into a steady pace of 150 strides per minute, Steele began to run. While at weekends the track could become busy, today he was alone and could get lost in his thoughts without worrying about bumping into another member.

Although Steele pretended to abhor physical activity, in reality he was in exceptional shape. Living on the streets of London since the age of ten meant that he had always been alert and fast moving, and he had begun boxing on an amateur basis in his adolescence. But it had been in Brazil, when he had come under the wing of Barney Kiernan at the age of nineteen, that he had really begun training seriously.

Steele was the wrong shape to succeed as a boxer, really – his long, lean frame with a high center of gravity being the opposite of what was required to fight at the top level. But he had had a wiry gymnastic strength, stamina and quick reactions which had made him a match for most of the fighters they had met as they had traveled around the villages and towns of Rio de Janeiro State. Barney had taken his boxing skills to a higher plane, even though they had had little time in the gym and most of Steele's experience had come not from formal training sessions but from actual fights in town squares and backroom boxing halls. And of course, there had been roadwork – mile upon mile of running which he had endured to build up his stamina.

Maintaining a slight deception about his physical prowess, like so many of his other habits, had always been a way of leaving an ephemeral impression about himself with those he encountered, whether acquaintances, marks or simply people he would never meet more than once. Misdirection was instinctive to him, a way of keeping those he came into contact with off balance. And that had applied to almost everyone, including – especially including – Laura. Since they had first met each other, the more she had pressed to know about him, the more he had wanted to evade easy categorization and to avoid revealing himself. Pretending to be out of breath climbing to her third story loft had been one of the million small diversions he had engaged in, day in and day out, to camouflage his real self. In his most private hours, the question that had sometimes prayed on his mind was whether there actually was a real self.

But his need for evasion had faded as they had grown closer. He had sometimes felt as if he were on a merry-go-round – what did Americans call them? a carousel – chasing the brass ring. The prize had been Laura. And now they were married; he had caught the brass ring, even if he sometimes felt scared that he had won the prize, and even more frequently felt he didn't deserve it.

His boxing days were behind him now. He knew that, at the age of thirty-three (or perhaps thirty-four), he was too old to meet any good amateur fighter in the ring and emerge without damage. These days, his sporting activities were mostly confined to more aesthetic and gentlemanly pursuits. Apart from training at the Los Angeles Athletic Club, he fenced every week with his instructor Claus. He played tennis at the Los Angeles Tennis Club, which was just around the corner from where he lived. He was always happy to participate in a chukka of polo whenever invited to by some wealthy businessman or acquaintance he met through work. And if they were in the mood, he and Laura simply walked across the road from his Rossmore Avenue apartment and played eighteen holes at the Wilshire Country Club, the exclusive private club which he had been sponsored to join by the chairman of Gruff and Reston Industries.

As he allowed his mind to wander freely, Steele counted off the laps of the one-eighth of a mile long circuit. Once he had completed 24 laps, he slowed his speed to wind down, checked his watch and took his pulse. He had completed the three miles in 24 minutes, a fit amateur runner's pace. Steele completed a couple of more winding down laps at a trot, then returned to the locker room.

He changed into his swimming costume and made his way back to the sixth floor to the pool. He swam for over an hour, doing lengths for fifteen minutes at a time and resting for five minutes in between each session. Far more than running, swimming was the form of exercise he found most enjoyable these days. Every muscle in his body was worked and a gentle tiredness had settled upon him by the time he finished.

Steele returned to the locker room, changed and then, eschewing the chance to have a drink in the club bar, made his way to the first floor entrance lobby. He had told Fred to return for him at eleven o'clock; he was a few minutes early, and spent the time chatting with one or two club members he recognized, pressing palms and promoting the agency in the way that was second nature to him. At eleven o'clock, he exited the club to find Fred parked at the curb. Steele climbed into the limo and told him to head to the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Remington Steele pushed through the glass doors of his eponymous agency. He was wearing a worsted, light gray, double breasted suit that had been made for him by his Italian tailor, a white Hilditch & Key shirt bought in London, a dark blue tie with a light blue diamond pattern worn with collar bar, and an ocean blue pocket square. A Longines watch adorned his wrist. His identity bracelet was not to be seen, as Laura had made him discard it after their marriage because she considered it tacky – which, in truth, it was.

"Good morning, Mildred," Steele said cheerfully.

"Mornin' Chief. Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you Mildred," he replied, as he walked towards his office. "Is Mrs Steele in?"

"Uh-huh, she's in her office," replied Mildred, as she rose to get the coffee.

Steele entered his office, just as Laura came through the connecting door. "Ah, good morning, Laura."

"Good morning – or what's left of it."

"Now Laura," said Steele, unwilling to let his good mood be spoiled by a potential argument, "I told you last night that I would be going to the club for a swim this morning."

"We have a client arriving at noon. Someone called Mr Amram Fouad."

"I know, and I'm here, all present and correct, and it's…not even half-past eleven," said Steele, looking at his watch. "Plenty of time yet, hmm?"

Laura smiled, her effort to bait Remington having crashed on the rocks of his bonhomie. "I know," she said. "I was just making sure you stay in line, Mr Steele."

"Ship shape and in fighting trim, Mrs Steele," said Remington, settling into the chair behind his desk.

He looked Laura over, simply reveling in the effect that her beauty had on his senses. He hadn't seen her since she had risen from their bed early that morning. She was, as usual, exquisitely and formally dressed in a midnight blue business suit that ended just below the knee, sheer black hose, black high heels, and a favorite blue and white, 1940s-inspired blouse. Her lipstick painted a red, sultry gash on her face. She wore the heart pendant which Remington had given her a couple of years earlier around her neck. She had disguised the rather disastrous recent experiment with bangs by blow drying her hair straight back, but otherwise her gorgeous, chestnut locks hung loose across her shoulders. Steele resisted the urge to grab her as she perched on the edge of his desk, facing him.

"Did you enjoy your swim?" she asked.

"Wonderful, wonderful," said Steele, dramatically taking a deep breath. "There's something about swimming that refreshes one; a total body workout, I suppose you would call it – and far more enjoyable than that aerobics business advocated by Jane Fonda."

"You're hopelessly old fashioned, Mr Steele," Laura said laughingly. "Aerobics is the exercise for the busy woman of the Eighties."

"Even though you don't actually practice it yourself, eh?"

"Oh, I couldn't stand the clothes. All those tight fitting leotards," she responded lightly. Although she would never admit it to him, Laura was self-conscious about her slim frame, and had often wished that her bust and hips were bigger.

Remington misunderstood. "Really Laura, you're just a slip of a lass. The last thing you need to worry about is looking overweight in your leotard."

"Well, thanks for the compliment – I think. I'd kill to lose five pounds, though."

"Don't you dare. Anyway, what you ladies so often don't realize, dear Laura, is that the majority of men actually prefer a little _avoirdupois_. Gives a chap something to grab onto."

"Hmm…permit me to be skeptical, Mr Steele. I think most men prefer svelte – Audrey Hepburn rather than Shelley Winters, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well, if you put it that way, I see your point," responded Steele. "But I still think somewhere between the two extremes is most attractive – Marilyn Monroe, say."

"Marilyn Monroe? Don't you think that's setting slightly unrealistic expectations for most women? She was one of the most beautiful women in history!"

"Well, yes…but I was simply talking about her figure: neither too slim nor too overweight, that's all."

"Oh, I see…so you don't like my figure. You want me to be…curvier!" Laura affected being insulted.

Steele suddenly felt befuddled. "That's not what I meant, Laura…you – your figure – is exquisite. I wouldn't want you any other way. Really. Truly. This was just a hypothetical conversation, that's all."

"What's hypothetical?" asked Mildred, appearing in the doorway bearing two cups of coffee.

"Mr Steele," said Laura in a clipped tone, "was just saying that he thinks I'm too skinny!"

"Oh Chief," replied Mildred, a shocked look on her face, "how can you say that? Mrs Steele's beautiful."

"I know she's beautiful, Mildred," implored Steele, rapidly losing his composure. "I would never look at any other woman. I _said_ her figure is wonderful!"

"Huh!" said Laura, hopping off the desk. Taking the cup of coffee from Mildred, she maintained the wounded look on her face as she turned towards her office, entered and closed the connecting door behind her. Once she was alone, her expression turned from affronted to amused, as she burst out in silent laughter.

"Tut, tut," said Mildred, heading towards the other exit. "Boss, I _really_ think you need to apologize to Mrs S. Buy her flowers. Do anything. Don't you know, even if you don't like her figure, it's a golden rule that a husband should never say so to his wife?"

With that, Mildred closed the door behind her, leaving Steele alone at his desk.

Steele was flummoxed; he thought he had been gulled, but he wasn't certain. "But I love the way Laura looks," he said to the empty room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

At exactly twelve noon, Steele's internal telephone line rang and Mildred announced that their visitor had arrived. "Show him in please, Mildred," said Steele. Laura entered through the connecting door from her office a few seconds before Mildred came in, followed by an elderly man dressed in an expensive gray suit.

Steele went around his desk with his hand extended. "Mr Fouad? I am Remington Steele."

The stranger did not extend his own hand, merely nodding his head in greeting. "Mr Steele, I am happy to make your acquaintance," he said, in accented English which immediately stirred a memory in Steele's mind.

"Please have a seat, Mr Fouad," said Steele, ushering the visitor to the chair in front of his desk. "And allow me to introduce my colleague, Laura Steele." Their visitor nodded a brief greeting to Laura, and then sat down, while Steele took his own seat behind his desk.

Laura stayed standing next to her husband. "Would you care for some refreshments, perhaps coffee or tea?" she asked.

"Some lemon tea would be acceptable. I thank you. I flew into Los Angeles only this morning and the air on the plane – well, it dries the mouth, they say."

"Of course, of course," replied Steele. Laura telephoned Mildred and requested tea. While they waited, Steele asked their guest, "You flew in this morning from where, Mr Fouad?"

"From Rio de Janeiro, Mr Steele. Do you know it?"

"I thought I recognized your accent. Now it's obvious – Rio de Janeiro! I know it well, Mr Fouad. I spent some time there many years ago." Steele switched into Portuguese, making small talk, occasionally using Rio slang, and mentioning various places in the city that he remembered – memories recalled from a far distant past. Fouad spoke little, merely acknowledging Steele's words now and then with a word or two of his own.

Mildred arrived and served the tea, and once she had left, Steele asked in English, "Now Mr Fouad, what can we do for you?"

"Mr Steele, do you know me?" he asked. When Steele did not react, he continued, "In Brazil, I am quite well known. I am well regarded as a successful businessman, and my family's company is worth many millions of dollars. But it is all self-made; when I first went to Brazil, I had nothing.

"My family are Sephardic Jews, Mr Steele, originally from Aleppo in Syria. You may not know, but after the State of Israel was founded, many of the Jewish communities in the Arab world, which had survived alongside their Moslem neighbors in peace for hundreds of years, were attacked. It was understandable, I suppose. This happened to us also, in Aleppo. In 1947, there were some fearful riots and the Central Synagogue was burned down. During that riot, Mr Steele, part of the Aleppo Codex was destroyed.

"The Aleppo Codex is a medieval version of the Jewish Bible, dating from the 10th century. It was consulted by scholars throughout the Middle Ages; in that distant age, Jews from around the world came to look up the accuracy of their own scriptures against the Aleppo Codex. It was of insurmountable importance, not only as a historical object but as a religious text. It was regarded as the Syrian Jewish community's most important possession – the simple people would pray and take oaths on it."

"I see; something akin to the Gutenberg Bible?"

"Yes, but even more precious, as it was the definitive version of our scriptures for so long. Following the riots, it was feared that the Codex had been destroyed; however, it seems that part of it was saved, and in 1958 it was smuggled out of Syria by the community elders and taken to Israel, where it is now held at the Hebrew University. But the main thing is this: ever since then, there have been rumors that the left behind parts of the Codex were not destroyed, and that some – pages, or just fragments – had survived."

"How could they have survived?" asked Laura.

"Mr Steele, after the riots, many Jews fled Syria and other Arab countries. There was a new diaspora, if I can say. Of course, many left for Israel but others went to other parts of the world. The talk has been that in the chaos after the riots, members of the congregation – ordinary members – may have had pages of the Codex which they took with them when they left. My own family, for example, left Aleppo in the early 1950s. God has favored me, and I have been successful since my family left Syria. For the last several years, I have been wanting to unearth any surviving pieces of the Codex, and my money will allow me to do that, if there are such fragments."

"I see. And you believe there may be some portion of the Codex here, in Los Angeles?" asked Steele.

"Yes. For several years I have had contacts with the pre-eminent dealers in ancient artifacts in the main centers of the art world – London, New York and Paris; and also in Cairo and Damascus. I dealt only with the most respectable dealers, and they knew that if a part of the Codex did come up to light, that I would so willingly pay to obtain it."

"And have you had any success?" asked Laura.

Fouad briefly glanced at her, then responded to Steele, "So far, there has been nothing. However, Mr Steele, a week ago one of my contacts in London, Richard Simpson – a very respectable and well-known dealer in ancient antiquities – contacted me to say that he had heard that a piece of the Codex did exist, somewhere in Los Angeles. And so I am here, to ask your help to obtain it. My advisers – my sources – tell me that your agency is the very best in this city, and that your network of connections is unparalleled. You have experience in these matters, is that not so?"

"It is true, Mr Fouad," replied Steele, "that I know many, many people in the art world. I feel confident that if anyone can assist you with your problem, it is the Remington Steele Agency."

"So, I have come to the correct place." Fouad reached into his pocket and placed a manila envelope onto the desk. "Here is $20,000. An initial payment for your assistance to locate any pieces of the Codex here in Los Angeles."

"_If_ they exist, Mr Fouad," said Steele. "We can only try, we cannot guarantee."

"I understand."

"Well, Mr Fouad, I think I can say that if Mrs Steele agrees, our agency would be well placed to assist you."

Their visitor looked surprised. "Your wife? Why must she agree?"

"Mr Fouad, Mrs Steele is not simply my wife, she is my close associate. She is a very experienced investigator herself, and unlike me, she is a native of Los Angeles. In all matters to do with our work, I trust her judgment completely."

"I see." Fouad now looked at Laura fully for the first time. "Please forgive me, Mr Steele, for the misunderstanding. Amongst my people, men do business and the women look after the home and the children. I hope you can understand?"

"Of course, of course. Laura?"

Laura acknowledged Fouad's implicit apology with a barely perceptible nod, then said, "Mr Fouad, you said that you want to buy any surviving pieces of the Codex. My question is, what will you do with them? Our agency would not be party to obtaining cultural or historical artifacts for a private collector if they legally belong to someone else."

Steele blanched at her words, wondering if they were slyly being directed at him or simply aimed at chasing away their chauvinistic client.

"Mrs Steele, I can assure you I only wish to buy the pieces of the Codex in order to donate them to the State of Israel, not for myself."

"Well, in that case," Laura replied, "I agree that I think our agency can take the case. We'll do our best to assist you, Mr Fouad."

"Good."

"Tell me, Mr Fouad, how long will you be in Los Angeles?" asked Steele.

"I am here for four days; I fly out on Sunday. I am staying at the Bonaventure."

Steele stood up, followed by Fouad, and began ushering their visitor towards the door. "Our assistant, Miss Krebs, will take over now Mr Fouad. She will take contact details so that we may reach you, and give you a receipt for the retainer – the money – which you have left with us. We shall begin working on the case, and will contact you with a report in the next day or two. In the meantime, if you need to speak to either Mrs Steele or to me, please do not hesitate to contact us; we can be reached at any time of the day or night."

Fouad nodded in acknowledgement, and then was ushered out by Mildred, who closed the door after them.

As soon as the door was closed, Steele braced himself for an explosion from Laura's direction – an explosion that never came. He wandered back to his desk, where Laura had perched herself on the edge; Steele briefly glanced at her legs, a thrill running up his spine at just how sexy she was.

He lowered himself down into his chair and looked at her. "I thought you'd be hopping mad, Laura."

"You mean about being virtually ignored by our client, or about being told that a woman's place is raising the children? What would be the point? It's a cultural attitude, isn't it?"

"Very understanding of you."

"Some battles are not worth engaging in, Mr Steele. Anyway, it's Mr Fouad's $20,000 that interests me now; a very useful fee."

"Oh, absolutely."

"And thank you for what you said – about your not acting without my agreement. It…it was very nice of you."

"It was the truth, Laura. You are the bedrock of this place, this agency. Whereas I…I'm just a _dilettante_, really."

"No, you're as important as me to this place. It's as you said, Remington, we're partners. We really are; we need each other."

"I think that might be the first time you've ever said you needed me, Laura."

"No. No, surely not? I'm positive I've said I needed you before this."

"Believe me, Laura, I think I would have remembered. To my recollection, you have spent most of the last four years telling me how independent you were and how you didn't need a man to protect you."

"Ha! Now I think you're _trying_ to provoke me. Well it's not going to work. I don't need a man to protect me – that much is true. But I never said I didn't need you in every other way, or if I did say it, I didn't really mean it. We're still married – and we wouldn't be if I didn't need you. Can you see the difference?"

"Erm…so you're saying, what? That it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind?"

Laura laughed, and slapped Steele good-naturedly on the arm. "Oh, for goodness sake, can we drop it? Let's just say we need each other?"

"Right. Back to work," said Steele, as Mildred entered, having shown their visitor out. "What's our first step?"

"Well, Mildred, will you begin looking into Mr Fouad; let's check the _bona fides_ of our client," said Laura.

"Right, Mrs S."

"Remington," Laura continued, "I think you should get out that staggering address book of yours and start making inquiries amongst the LA art dealers and all your other contacts...legitimate and not so legitimate. Perhaps you can find out if anyone has heard anything about ancient manuscripts, especially ancient Hebrew texts, coming onto the market?"

"Certainly. What will you do?"

"I am going to research the Aleppo Codex. Have you never heard of it before?"

"Laura, while I've had many years of experience in the world of...erm...fine art and antiquities, I don't actually know about every single object out there. Good Lord, there are hundreds of thousands of paintings, sculptures and manuscripts in the world; I can't be expected to know all of them."

"No, no, of course not. But this Aleppo Codex sounds such an intriguing, mysterious object. I would've thought it was right up your alley? Anyway, I'll get more background on it. Why don't we all get together later today and compare notes?" Laura hopped off of the desk and started towards her own office. "Remington, I'll need to borrow your membership of the UCLA library," she said over her shoulder.

"It's at home. It's in the new bureau with all the other paperwork."

"Oh. I'll pop home and pick it up, then go over to UCLA. Fred will drive me; I'll leave you the keys of the Rabbit."

"What about lunch?" asked Steele, to her retreating back.

"I'll grab a sandwich," replied Laura, putting on her fedora, collecting her purse and rapidly exiting the office.

"Mildred, it looks like it's you and me. What say we head over to Matteo's in Beverly Hills? My treat," said Steele.

"Oh, thanks for the offer, but a meal of pasta on a Wednesday at lunchtime? Too much, Boss. I think I'll go down to the restaurant on the first floor and pick up a salad. I can get you something. How about an egg salad? Much healthier than pasta pomarola, you know."

Steele looked forlorn. "Fine Mildred, get me that egg salad. But make sure you also get me a vanilla Danish – I don't think I could survive just on rabbit food."

"Mr Steele, you're exaggerating. It's not rabbit food – a salad is healthy. In fact, you could probably use more salads in your diet. Mrs Steele and I were just discussing this the other day, your cholesterol intake is probably far too high. It'll do you good," said Mildred, smiling as she exited his office.

Steele did not respond.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The limousine pulled up in front of the main library at UCLA. "Thanks Fred," said Laura. "I don't know how long I'll be, but it will be at least a couple of hours. I'll phone you when I'm done, okay?"

"Yes Ma'am," replied Fred.

Laura jumped out of the limo, entered the library and made her way to the reception desk. After consulting one of the staff members, she was led to a work desk, and then shown a computer terminal which contained the library's electronic catalog.

Over the next several hours, Laura consulted history books and academic journals, carefully taking notes in her flowing, left-handed script on a yellow legal pad. This kind of work – detailed, in-depth research – was something that she excelled at, with her methodical, orderly mind. The hours flew by with her hardly noticing. Finally, she closed the books she had been consulting, returned them to the stack for re-shelving, and exited the library. Laura found a payphone and called for the car, then dialed the office.

"Mildred, oh good, you're still there. Yes, it's just past six...I'm heading back to the office now…You'll wait? Great, thanks Mildred. Yes. Yes, we'll compare notes…and thanks for working late."

Upon returning to the office, Laura walked straight into Remington's room. Steele and Mildred were sitting in the casual seating area, Steele looking over some computer printouts while Mildred sipped coffee. "Hello," said Laura.

"Oh, hi Mrs Steele," said Mildred, looking up. "How did it go at UCLA?"

"Fine. Listen, Mildred, thanks for working late."

"No problem. If I'd gone home, I only planned to watch a rerun of the _Cosby Show_," replied the secretary.

"So, what are the results of your endeavors?" asked Steele, emerging from behind the material he had been reading.

"Very fruitful," replied Laura, sitting down and pulling out her notes. "According to my research, the story about the Aleppo Codex that Mr Fouad told us this afternoon was more or less accurate." Laura consulted her legal pad. "The Codex did reach Israel in 1958 partially destroyed, with about half of it believed lost in the fire at the Aleppo synagogue. Oh, I have a couple of photostat pictures of the Codex there, you might want to take a look at them to familiarize yourself with it. Anyway, there have been constant rumors that some or all of the missing sections survived, and these rumors have been fueled – excuse the pun – by the fact that the extant sections show no sign of charring, which has made a lot of people believe that the Codex was never in a fire at all. And so…"

"And so," jumped in Steele, "if there was no fire, then the missing sections could not have been consumed in the flames, correct?"

"Exactly. How was your afternoon?"

"Well…after some rabbit food for lunch…" Laura was puzzled by the allusion, but let it go. "I spent a long afternoon on the telephone to various contacts, putting out feelers about the Codex. If any of the main players out here on the West Coast hear anything, they've promised to establish contact with us."

"Okay," said Laura. "And what about you, Mildred?"

"Well, Mrs Steele, it looks like Fouad's story is kosher. I found quite a few pieces in South American newspapers about the family, which Mr Steele helped me translate, and one or two articles in US business magazines as well. It's pretty much like our client said – the Fouad conglomerate has interests in Brazilian agriculture and manufacturing, but it also has operations in Bolivia, Ecuador and even in Mexico. The company is very much family run, with Fouad's brothers or nephews in charge of the different operations. It's profitable, and the family is certainly very rich."

"Well," said Laura, "it seems we have a legitimate client with a legitimate artifact he's after. The question is, if Remington's approaches to the art world don't result in anything, how do we go about locating any of the missing Codex? We need another approach as backup."

"What do you suggest?"

"My idea is to gain entry into the Syrian Jewish community here in LA, if we can."

"I don't know, Laura," said Steele. "I would guess that the Sephardic Jews, who might well have fled persecution wherever they came from, aren't going to be very welcoming. It could be just like _Witness_."

"Huh?" interjected Mildred.

"_Witness_ – Harrison Ford, Kelly McGillis, Paramount, 1985," elaborated Steele. "A policeman tries to locate a witness to a crime within the extremely insular Amish community, which proves initially rather difficult."

"You might be right," said Laura, "but we can but try. Mildred – tomorrow, I want you to research if there are any Syrian Jewish synagogues in LA, or whether there is a Syrian Jewish community here at all – a charity, or maybe a community center. I think that might be a place to start. But otherwise, I think there's nothing more we can do tonight."

"Okay, Mrs Steele. The Boss has got all my research, so if there's nothing else, I guess I'll head on home." Mildred got up and left the office, leaving her employers alone.

"Well…" said Steele, "if there is nothing else we can do, shall we return to the marital abode as well?"

"Yes. I sent Fred home, so we'll have to take the Rabbit. Make sure you bring that research, will you, I want to look it over tonight."

"Right ho, Mrs Steele. To the garage, we descend."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Laura unlocked the door to Apartment A on the fifth floor and entered with Remington close behind her, threw her hat and purse on the coffee table, kicked off her high heels and flopped down on the couch. Steele shucked off his jacket and draped it over the arm of the couch, loosened his tie and sat down next to her.

"It's nice to be home," said Laura, massaging her temples.

"Long day, eh?"

"Four hours of plowing through academic journals; I felt like I was back at Stanford."

"Well, why don't I make dinner while you have a shower?" said Steele, as he rose and headed off towards the kitchen.

Laura collected her hat, purse and shoes and went into the bedroom. She undressed, took off her watch and jewelry, and after hanging up her suit in the closet, picked up her used blouse, underwear and pantyhose and entered the bathroom, dropping them into the overflowing laundry hamper with an irritated 'tsk'. She then took a long, soothing shower, letting the hot water melt away some of the tension in her neck that had come from several hours hunched over a desk at the UCLA library. She used a pumice stone on her skin, and shaved her legs and under her arms before exiting the shower.

Feeling refreshed, Laura wrapped herself in an enormous bath towel, and then removed her makeup and cleansed and toned her face in front of the large bathroom mirror. She and Remington were still adjusting to sharing the apartment, which was probably too small for the two of them, and since Remington had never had a dressing table in his bedroom, the bathroom counter had now become cluttered with Laura's cosmetics and toiletries.

After removing her makeup, she went through to the bedroom and dressed in a pair of khaki Gap chinos, a white blouse and a pair of tan, GH Bass weejuns. She smiled to herself as she caught her reflection in the wall of mirrors in the bedroom, relieved to be wearing flats after spending the whole day in her heels. She thought she looked vaguely Katharine Hepburnish in the slightly masculine clothes.

Steele turned on the lights, pondering what to make for dinner. He perused the contents of the enormous refrigerator, the largest part of which was taken up by bottles and bottles of white wine and champagne. Then inspiration struck and he set to work.

Steele turned on the grill to let it heat up. Taking down his granite pestle and mortar, he squeezed the juice from one half of a fresh lemon into the mortar, added a clove of garlic and some extra virgin olive oil, and began to pound them together, forming a marinade. When the marinade had coalesced into a smooth paste, he added salt, pepper and a fistful of finely chopped dill weed. He smeared two salmon fillets, which he had bought at his favorite delicatessen on the previous Sunday, with the marinade and then placed the fillets under the hot grill to broil. He took a bunch of white asparagus from the refrigerator, broke off the butt ends, brushed the spears with more olive oil, salt and pepper and placed these under the grill as well. While the food cooked, Steele made a dressing for the asparagus, mixing some extra virgin olive oil, Dijon mustard and white wine vinegar in a salad bowl. He was at the sink, washing his cutting board and cooking utensils, when Laura came into the kitchen.

"Ah, Laura. Dinner will be ready in about five minutes, okay? We're having salmon."

"Fine. Wine?" asked Laura, opening the refrigerator.

"I think the Beringer Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc would suit, don't you? It's in the fridge somewhere." Laura found the bottle, and had poured out two full glasses just as Steele was drying his hands. He looked at Laura, who had divested herself of her formal business attire, and now reminded him startlingly of a student; without makeup she often looked so young that it still sometimes took him aback.

"You didn't empty the laundry hamper this morning, you know," Laura said, sounding a little peeved.

"Hmm?"

"When I left this morning, I told you to empty the hamper into the laundry bags so that Maria could take the dirty clothes to the laundry. You didn't, and the hamper is overflowing now."

"Ah. Yes, well, I suppose I forgot. Sorry about that, Laura. Maria can take the laundry to the cleaners tomorrow; no harm done, eh?"

"Maria isn't coming tomorrow. She's only working every other day now."

"She is? My cleaner used to come every day."

"I changed Maria's hours. It's further for her to travel from East LA to here than to the loft."

"Well, it would have been nice if you had told me…I live here as well, you know."

"I know you live here, this is your apartment, but Maria was my cleaner and…and she's more, she's like a friend. She wanted to stop servicing us altogether, and she only agreed to carry on here if she could move onto working only on alternate days."

"I didn't know that. And it's _our_ apartment, not my apartment!"

"That's not relevant. The point is, I reminded you to do something and you didn't. You probably didn't listen. In fact, I don't know why I bother telling you things, you almost never listen to me."

"Now Laura, you're exaggerating, I do listen to you. All the time. A man's only human, you know! Surely, a wife can forgive a mistake now and then, hmm?"

"If only it were only now and then," said Laura, her eyes ablaze.

"My fish is done," said Steele, turning towards the grill and switching it off. "And I think my goose is cooked," he whispered, _sotto voce_.

"I heard that," said Laura, as Steele looked at her. Suddenly she smiled, "And no, your goose isn't cooked."

The tension broken, Steele also smiled. "Close shave, eh?" He came and stood next to Laura, kissed her cheek and smiled his disarming, boyish grin. "I'm sorry Laura. You're right, I should have remembered to empty the clothes hamper this morning. I'll tell you what, I'll promise to go and stand in the hamper after dinner and squash the clothes down, so that the lid closes. Okay?"

"Okay, it's a deal." As Steele turned away, Laura leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Now, I'll go and set the table, shall I?"

Laura went into the dining room and began setting two places on Remington's smoked glass dining table. Meanwhile, Steele took a swig of his drink, then plated up the food.

He placed a fillet of the grilled salmon onto each of two plates that had been warming in the main oven, tossed the asparagus in the dressing, picked up the plates on one arm like a waiter, collected the salad bowl and his wine glass and proceeded into the dining room. "Grilled Pacific salmon with a white asparagus salad," he announced. "Extremely healthy – and low in cholesterol, Mrs Steele."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Mildred knocked on the open door of Remington Steele's office, then entered. The Boss was seated at one end of the couch and Mrs Steele on the armchair next to it. Steele had removed the jacket of his charcoal gray, single breasted suit, unbuttoned the vest and had loosened his maroon tie and collar bar. Mrs Steele was wearing a light blue and silver brocaded, double breasted Mary McFadden suit, with a dark blue Hermès scarf at her throat. She had removed her shoes, and had tucked her legs under her as she sat. Each of them had a fork in their hands, as they shared a single, large egg salad for lunch. Two glasses of orange liquid were on the table next to the salad container. Remington Steele looked rather glum.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I think I have a lead on the Syrian Jews here in LA," Mildred said. "What's the drink, orange juice?"

"No, no, come right in Mildred," said Laura. "We're drinking carrot juice. Anyway, what have you got?"

"Well, I've found out that there is a Syrian Jewish community here in LA. The center of the community is somewhere called the Shield of David Temple, in North Hollywood."

"Good work, Mildred."

"Anyway, I spoke to one of the volunteers at the synagogue. The rabbi, Joseph Meldola, is not at the temple right now, as he's gone home. It took some persuasion, but I got his home number, and I called him. I explained the situation, and he agreed that you could go by his house later today and speak with him. He said to come by some time after four o'clock. Here's the address," said Mildred, proffering Laura a piece of paper.

"Great, thanks. North Hollywood…okay, phone Fred for the car at half-past three, Mildred, then call the rabbi back and tell him that Mr Steele and I will be there at around four o'clock, if that's still convenient."

After Mildred had left, Laura continued to attack the styrofoam container of egg salad. She noticed that her husband was hardly eating. "What's the matter, Remington, don't you like the salad?" she asked.

"Too bloody right!" exclaimed Steele. "Do you realize, Laura, that this is the second day running that I've had to eat this…this…rabbit food for lunch? And as for this orange glop which you expect me to drink – well, it looks like something I'd find down in the bottom of my waste disposal unit."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Will you please stop complaining! The salad and that 'glop' are very good for you. And no one forced you to eat this, anyway. I asked you whether you wanted to share a salad, and you agreed."

"Oh no, Laura, that won't wash. I may not really have had a father or any older brothers to guide me, but believe me, I am rapidly becoming acquainted with those wifely tricks that women use. When you asked me if I wanted to share a salad with you, there's that certain way you have of asking the question which brooked no response except agreement.

"Really Laura, we only live once, you know – and good food is one of the great passions and indulgences of life…yet you want to eat egg salad and drink carrot juice!"

"Oh, please! This is not the 1950s, and I am not my mother. Believe me, Remington, you won't find me using 'wifely tricks'. You're an adult, and if you don't want to share a salad together, I am not going to have a nervous breakdown about it," Laura replied firmly.

Steele was wary. "Really?"

"Yes, really. But, let me ask you this: if you hadn't agreed to this salad and carrot juice, what would you have done for lunch today?"

"Uhm…I don't know, perhaps osso bucco or linguini at Miceli's. Why?"

"Well, let me also ask you this: how many times have you been to Miceli's for linguini? Dozens, surely?"

"I suppose so."

"So, we agree that we only have one life to live, and we should all live it to the full, trying to experience as much as we can – correct?"

"Yeessss…"

"And yet you show yourself to be such a creature of habit, Remington. You'd have gone to Miceli's for linguini – which, by your own admission, you've done many, many times before – whereas today, you have had the chance to experience something new. Can you honestly say you've ever shared an egg salad and carrot juice with your wife before? The experience is the thing – 'only connect', as EM Forster said, as I recall."

Steele was now discombobulated. "Erm…you've lost me Laura. If I understand you correctly, you're trying to tell me that my life is now richer, more fulfilled and that I've experienced something profound and new – by sharing an egg salad with you?"

"Precisely."

With that, Laura rose from her seat, finished her carrot juice and padded off on bare feet back towards her office. At the connecting door, she turned and flashed Remington her biggest smile, her dimples totally disarming any remaining resistance on his part. "Think about what I've said, Remington. Please finish the salad and drink the juice, they're much better for you than eating at Miceli's every day. But I promise, we can go there for lunch next week one day, alright?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The limousine pulled up outside a modest, two-story home in North Hollywood, one of LA's less affluent neighborhoods. The house was neat, however, and the street was quiet. Steele got out of the limo, held the door open for Laura, and then closed it after her. As they walked up the garden path to the front door, he rolled his tongue around his mouth.

After Laura had left his office, he had finished off the egg salad and drunk the carrot juice. In truth, while he loved fine food and drink, he did not mind eating lightly during the working day and would have been quite content to have shared Laura's egg salad. The little scene they had played out in his office had been just that – an act, one of the many ways he had of enlivening sometimes dull days. Although he had now remained in LA for four years, and had ended up a respectable business owner – and indeed, a married man – he still chafed sometimes at the routine that the ordinary, white collar world entailed. Creating small dramas, sending the sparks flying between himself and Laura, was one of the ways he tried to stave off the tedium – the sheer normality – that he feared might have settled on his life forever. The salad had been fine; however, the carrot juice had been truly disgusting and he could still taste its after effects now, several hours later.

Laura rang the bell, and the door was answered by a dark haired girl of about ten. "Hello," said Laura, "we're looking for Rabbi Meldola."

A short man in his forties wearing a kippah appeared behind the girl. "Mr and Mrs Steele? I am Joseph Meldola. Please come in." The Steeles entered. "This is my daughter, Rachel. Please come into my study."

Steele and Laura followed the rabbi into his study, and took two chairs in front of his desk. "Now, let me get you some tea."

"That's quite alright, Rabbi Meldola," said Steele.

"No, no, I insist." The rabbi went to the door of his study, opened it and called out. A girl of about twelve appeared. "This is my second daughter, Sarah," he said. "Sarah, please fetch some tea for our guests." The rabbi returned to his seat, then continued, "Mr Steele, do you have children?"

Steele was caught off guard. "Er, no Rabbi, we do not. We have only been married for a very short time."

"Yes, of course, you are both still young. Children are truly a blessing in a marriage. We Jews believe that children teach us compassion. My wife and I have been lucky, we have been blessed four times, and all of them are girls. We hope to have more."

"Your own version of _Cheaper by the Dozen_, perhaps? Clifton Webb and Myrna Loy, MGM, 1950 – a film about a family that has twelve children," Steele explained.

Rabbi Meldola smiled, "No, Mr Steele, I think twelve might be a little much, even for someone who loves children as I do." There was a knock on the door, and an older girl entered with a tea tray. She served the Steeles and her father, then smiled, and quietly departed. "My oldest daughter, Muriel," he explained.

The three of them sipped their tea, Laura surreptitiously glancing around the room. It was decorated in a neutral, modern style, with a wooden floor, and inexpensively furnished. Everything was clean and dust-free, however. There were shelves on two sides of the room, filled floor to ceiling with books. The wall behind Laura and Steele contained a large window that overlooked the street. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the lace curtains, shining into the rabbi's eyes as he faced them, and placing Laura's and Remington's faces somewhat in shadow.

"From your accent, Mr Steele, I'm guessing you are a foreigner?" queried Rabbi Meldola.

"I grew up in England."

"A wonderful country, Sir. I have been to London several times. And you, Mrs Steele? Are you also English?"

"No, Rabbi. I grew up here in Los Angeles. In Encino."

"So did I, Mrs Steele. I am a born and bred American. My parents came to this country from Syria before the Second World War." He turned again towards Steele. "Now, what did you wish to see me about?"

Steele glanced at Laura, then recalling that the rabbi probably shared the conservative values exhibited the previous day by Amram Fouad, spoke. "Rabbi, we are here on a rather delicate matter. Without doubt you have heard of the Aleppo Codex, and know that there are rumors that the missing parts of it were not destroyed, but were saved and might be held by members of the Aleppo Jews' diaspora?"

"Old rumors, Mr Steele, that have been circulating for decades. There are Sephardic communities all over the world, many Jews who emigrated from Aleppo, and yet no fragment of the Codex has ever turned up in nearly 40 years."

"True, Rabbi. We represent a client, however, who recently received information that a fragment of the Codex has survived, and was held by someone in Los Angeles. Our client is, like you, a Sephardim. He believes his information is credible. He hired our agency to see if the fragment could be located, and if so, be purchased."

"For what purpose, Mr Steele? So that it can disappear into the safe of some private collector?"

"No, no, no, Rabbi. Our client is a wealthy man, but he wants to purchase any surviving fragment of the Codex only to donate it to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His wish is only to serve his people, to return any piece of the Codex to its proper guardians."

"And what do you want from me, Mr Steele?"

"We would like you to make inquiries with your community, Rabbi – 'to reach out' so to speak – as to whether any of the congregation might have pieces of the Codex and would be willing to come forward."

"It is a long shot, Mr Steele. You might succeed if some member of our temple has some of the Codex, and if they are willing to come forward after all this time – bearing in mind the shame that they might have to overcome, having not done the right thing and returned the fragment long before this."

"It is a long shot. I hope the money on offer, to buy the fragment, might be persuasive."

"I fear you are right, Mr Steele. A good Jew, if they had a piece of it, should have come forward years ago. If any such fragments exist, then they have been held onto, either from superstition or for personal gain. So yes, it saddens me to say it, but the money might help."

"Then you will help us?"

"Who is your client?"

Steele glanced at Laura, who had been silent throughout his exchange with their host. Now she risked speaking, "Rabbi Meldola, we promise our clients confidentiality."

Rabbi Meldola looked at Laura, seemingly uninhibited by her being a woman of equal standing with her husband, and spoke to her. "Mrs Steele, so far everything you have both told me has made sense. But you are asking me to trust in the good intentions of your client, this wealthy benefactor of the Aleppo Jews. Whether I co-operate depends on who this man is, as I am sure you can see? You have my word that I shall keep his name confidential. But if you want my help, you must tell me who he is."

It was Laura's turn to look at Remington. After a moment's consideration, she nodded her head, and he spoke. "Rabbi Meldola, our client is Amram Fouad, of Rio de Janeiro."

Rabbi Meldola nodded. "I have heard of him, of course. Regardless of which country we may have fled to, the Syrian Jews were a small community and we know each other; especially so in the case of such a prominent and wealthy family. They have a good reputation." The rabbi sipped his tea and appeared to consider his decision for a moment. "Very well, Mr Steele, I will help you."

"Excellent," said Steele, turning on one of his comradely smiles.

"I shall speak to the members of my temple, the congregation, especially on Friday. I shall inform them of your search, and more so, urge them to come forward if they, or anyone they know, has any information on the Codex. Is this satisfactory?"

"Most helpful, Rabbi Meldola."

"Very well. If I have any information before then, I shall contact you, but otherwise, expect to hear from me on Sunday, once I have spoken to my people. Nothing can happen on Saturday, you realize, of course?"

Rabbi Meldola sipped the last of his tea, then rose, as Steele and Laura did likewise, and all three made their way to the front door. After thanking the rabbi, and giving him a business card in order to contact them, Steele and Laura got into the limousine and headed back to their apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

In what had become their routine, upon entering the apartment, Steele took off his maroon silk tie and the vest and jacket of his eight hundred dollar suit, and flung them over a chair, before sitting heavily on the couch. Laura likewise slipped off her high heels and sat down next to him, placing her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and they sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"What did you think of Rabbi Meldola?" he asked, staring through the enormous, angled picture window towards the high rises of downtown LA, visible in the distance.

"After what happened the day before, I was surprised that he spoke to me," replied Laura. "I guess I shouldn't have assumed he would be the same as Mr Fouad. I found the rabbi very specific, direct but open. Trustworthy. His questions were astute. All in all, the type of witness or participant on a case that makes a detective's life easier."

"A bit cold blooded and analytical, Laura. I meant what did you think of the rabbi as a person, hmm?"

"Well, we only just met him, didn't we? But he did seem to be a very nice man, and was obviously a proud father."

"Yes. Ha, ha – you could've knocked me down with a feather when he asked me if we had any children."

"You handled the question very diplomatically."

"You know, we've never actually talked about that…matter, have we?" said Steele cautiously. "What do you think about children, just as a matter of principle, Laura?"

"Well…you know, the last couple of months have been so…hectic, that it – such a major question – has never crossed my mind," Laura replied, equally cautiously. Sitting side by side with Remington, she was able to avoid looking at him, staring off to her right, through the glass doors leading to their terrace.

"Yeesss…we've never really talked about it, have we? I think we'll have to have a theoretical discussion about…that…in the future. Plenty of time yet, I'd say."

"Oh, yes. It's definitely a conversation we should have at some point…in the future."

Steele shifted, and extricated his arm from around her. "Do you mind, my darling, but my arm's going dead," he said, a little too cheerfully, flexing it to get the blood circulating.

"I'm for the shower," said Laura, as she hopped up, collected her things and retreated. As she passed, Steele reached over and brushed her hand with his own. He often touched her; it was a way that he expressed his deeper feelings where his usual stream of words were inadequate. It still disconcerted Laura somewhat, even now, as her upbringing had not been in a very emotionally expressive, tactile family, but she understood his need for contact and its meaning.

"Right…I'll make dinner while you wash," he said.

In the bedroom, Laura undressed, brushed her Mary McFadden suit and put it away, and then went through her bathing routine, trying to suppress through frenetic activity the shadow that had come over her mood after their conversation about children. Her mind having cleared a little, she finished in the bathroom and dressed in a pair of semi-formal, wine colored pants, mid-heeled calf length suede boots and a black, turtleneck sweater – Laura loved turtlenecks and wore them often. She touched up her makeup before going to look for Remington.

She emerged to find that Steele apparently hadn't moved; he was engrossed in a book, with a cup of tea now balanced on the arm of the couch. She watched him for a few seconds from the bedroom doorway: his long, lean body stretched out languorously, still clad in his working clothes; the back of his head and the luxurious, long, coal black hair that she loved to run her hands through. A feeling of longing – pure, physical desire – made her stomach flutter for a second. Remington was so attractive, so physically perfect a man, that this feeling occasionally came over Laura unexpectedly – when she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, perhaps, or when his body took on a new posture which had never before registered in her sense-memory. Sometimes, such as now, she just stared at him, inwardly wondering how she had won such a handsome man whom she thought out of her league.

Laura came further into the room and stood by the fireplace. She saw her coal black cat, Nero, was curled up on the armchair opposite Remington, asleep. "My two favorite men," she said, as she went up to Nero and briefly scratched the back of his neck. Her cat purred, then went back to sleep. "How are you getting along with him? No rivalry for my affections, I hope."

Steele looked up from his book. "Nero and I? Oh, we get on fine. Always have, haven't we old chap?" he said, looking down his nose at the still sleeping cat. The cat ignored them both.

Laura sat down in her previous position next to Remington and leaned close against him, needing to be in contact again. "What are you reading?" she asked.

"Hmm? _Thematic Explorations of Early Renaissance Art: Verrocchio, Da Vinci and Di Credi_," he said, indicating the fabric-covered book.

"Sounds heavy going."

"Well, one has to keep up to date in one's field, you know."

Laura nodded agreement. Steele had a penchant for reading serious, even academic books on his many areas of expertise – cigars, art, antiquities, gems, tailoring, golf, film history, cooking, oenology, horse racing, card games, fencing, polo, travel, antique cars, furniture and more. It was something which had surprised Laura when they had first started living together, until she realized how hard he worked to cast the impression of effortless accomplishment that people, especially women, found so attractive in him.

She reflected on the fact that it was only when you moved in with someone that a lot of their habits were revealed. Remington had never had many books in his apartment, especially compared to Laura, whose loft had had a couple of bookshelves filled floor to ceiling with them. He had always seemed well read – very cultured – but the absence of books at his place had made her think that it reflected a desire not to have many possessions; a habit of his former life, where no real attachment to any object or person should be formed, where someone had to be ready to walk out of a place at a moment's notice with only those items he or she could carry.

Now Laura knew that even though Remington did not buy any books, he was a dedicated user of libraries. His voracious reading was fed by the local John C. Fremont Library in the neighborhood, and his desire for heavyweight tomes – like the one he now held – was satisfied by external memberships at the UCLA and USC libraries.

"Ready to eat?" he asked, pecking her on the forehead before getting up. "I took a chance and warmed the food while you were in the shower." Laura made to rise, but Steele waved her back down. "No, stay there Laura, we can eat here. It's only finger food."

"Finger food? Oh, okay." Laura settled back down and flicked on the television with the remote control.

Steele headed off to the kitchen. He returned almost instantly bearing a large tray which he placed on the coffee table. "_Voilà_," he said, "allow me to present Madame with hot dogs."

"Hot dogs?" Laura laughed trillingly. "We're having hot dogs for dinner? You're full of surprises, I'll say that."

"You don't approve? As you pointed out to me earlier today, Laura, not everything has to be _haute cuisine_. This is the authentic food of the American working man. Part of your great country's cultural history. Hot dogs – they're as American as mom, apple pie and baseball. It would be no exaggeration to say that hot dogs…hot dogs are the food that built this great nation – maybe along with hamburger! Yes, one could truly argue that eating hot dogs reconnects every American with their history, and more than that…"

"Okay, okay! I get it, Mr Steele! Sit down, and let's have a look." She inspected the tray of food. There was a dish containing grilled dogs that had been put back in brine to keep warm, crisply toasted buns, and several smaller dishes containing chopped pickles, some still-warm sautéed onions, gooey melted cheese, canned sauerkraut, ketchup and mustard.

"There's no chili," said Laura.

"Hmm?"

"There's no chili. You can't make a chili dog without chili, can you?"

"Sorry, Laura, but I didn't have the spare twenty-four hours it takes to knock up a good chili. Do you think you can make do without it?"

"I guess so." Laura went into the kitchen to wash her hands – she had touched Nero – then returned to her seat and proceeded to construct a dog. "Shall I do one for you?" she asked Remington.

"Yes, please, everything on it," he nodded.

Using tongs, Laura made him a dog, put it on a china plate and passed it over with one of the expensive linen napkins; Steele attacked it with gusto. She made one for herself, omitting the onions and going extra heavy on the mustard and melted cheese. The two of them ate, sitting side by side on the couch, watching the evening news on television – an unusually informal dinner in the Steele household.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The telephone rang, and Steele reached a long arm over the back of the couch and picked it up. "Steele here…" he said. "Yes…Yes…Uh-huh. Who am I speaking to? Oh, okay…yes, yes, I know it…right, the pink paper…nine. Okay." He hung up and turned back to an expectant Laura.

"Well, there go _The Seven Thieves_."

"What?"

"There's a showing of _The Seven Thieves_ on NBC tonight – Edward G. Robinson, Rod Steiger, Twentieth Century Fox, 1960. A caper movie. I've never seen it, and was hoping to catch it. But it looks like I'll miss it now. That man on the phone…said he had information about ancient manuscripts, and had heard I was interested in them. Wants to meet tonight."

"You mean there's an old movie you've never seen?" Laura asked, incredulously.

"Of all the movies, in all the towns, in all the world…Laura, there are many, many movies I've never seen – although it might not appear so."

"Wow..." Laura shook her head in disbelief. "So, the man who called, did he give his name? What time is the meeting – nine o'clock?"

"Yes, nine. And no, he didn't give his name. He just said, if I was interested, to meet on the west side of the Farmers Market at nine. He said he knew what I looked like, and that I could recognize him because he would be holding a copy of the _Financial Times_."

"Oh, I see. The _Financial Times_ of London, it's printed on…"

"Pink colored paper, yes. Very distinctive. I think it's the only newspaper in the world that is printed that way. Quite a clever trick to use if you are meeting someone, actually, especially here in LA."

"Well, let's go!"

"Just hold your horses, will you? We've got some time. The question is, do you think there's any danger to this _rendezvous_? After all, this fellow says he knows what I look like, and we're walking into the lion's den, aren't we?"

"I don't think so," replied Laura. "After all, the Farmers Market is a very public place, it's open quite late and there are sure to be a lot of people still around at nine. As long as we stay together with other people, I can't see any danger."

"Do you think we should get the agency gun?" Steele looked at her seriously. "I know you hate it when I say it, but ever since we've been _together_ together, I've become, well, more concerned about you? Uhm, I realize you say that you don't need me to protect you…but actually…I'm thinking more about myself…If anything happened to you – well, it would knock the stuffing out of me, I think. I've come rather to rely on having you about the place."

Laura looked into his blue, blue eyes, seeing sincerity there. She leaned over and kissed his lips. "I know," she said. "I feel the same way. But I really don't think there's any need for a gun this time. I'm sure we'll both be alright…we have each other. Now eat up."

* * *

Just over an hour later, Steele turned off Fairfax Avenue into the vast Farmers Market complex and left the Auburn in the car park on the north side. He and Laura then passed through one of the gates into the maze of buildings in the western part of the market. It was a few minutes before the nine o'clock assignation time.

"Let's just circulate," said Laura to Steele, "and see if we can spot anyone carrying a pink newspaper."

"Right."

The Farmers Market was essentially a large, outdoor mall which contained restaurants, fresh produce stores and market stalls, all housed in their own individual, sometimes substantial buildings. The buildings were laid out in a haphazard fashion, not in neat lines. Even at that hour, people circulated around, shopping or eating in the many restaurants.

As he and Laura wandered around, Steele saw a flash of pink. He nudged her, indicating a man of average height, who was standing outside Du-Par's restaurant, with an unmistakably pink colored newspaper under his arm. He was young and swarthy – Steele thought he might well be Jewish or Middle Eastern – and dressed in jeans and a casual jacket. They made their way towards him.

The man spotted them, and turned away from them, heading in the other direction. Laura and Steele increased their pace and followed him. Suddenly he ducked down a very narrow passage that ran between two of the buildings, as if deliberately trying to get away from them. Steele, followed by Laura, began to run. By the time they entered the passage, the man had nearly reached the end; when he did, he turned right and disappeared.

Just as he rounded the corner at the end of the passage, Steele saw the swarthy man standing fifteen yards ahead of him with his hand extended in front of him. "Gun, Laura!" shouted Steele, as he jumped back into the cover of the narrow passage, shielding Laura with his body. Two bullets hit the wall close to his head.

Wanting to startle their assailant, Steele let out a roar and kicked over a metal trash can, making as much noise as possible. He craned his neck around the corner; the man had already turned and was heading for the cars parked along the perimeter of the complex. Steele set off after the man, Laura close behind him. Ahead of him, he saw the main jump into a green sedan, pull away from the parking space and head towards the main gate at breakneck speed.

"Damn!" said Steele. He had just reached the place where the man had been parked, and he could see the car exiting through the main gate thirty or forty yards ahead.

Laura came up behind him, saw what had happened, and immediately turned, running for the Auburn in the main car park. "Wait, Laura," Steele called after her. "He's too far ahead of us, he will be gone by the time you've got the car."

Laura stopped running, turned around and came back towards him. "Did you get the license plate?" she asked, slightly out of breath.

"No, he was only a few yards away, but he'd removed it. Pretty daring, actually; if he'd been stopped by a cop, he'd have been in trouble. All I can say is that it was a recent model, green Cutlass Supreme with a black vinyl roof."

Laura stooped and carefully picked up the newspaper the swarthy man had been carrying. "Well, we have a good clue here. His newspaper. The wholesale distributors might be able to tell us who sells this paper – it is pretty rare in LA."

"Of course, of course. And there are the bullets." Steele led the way back to the passage they had come out of, returning to the spot where the shooting had occurred. He used the pocket knife Laura kept in her purse to extract one of the bullets from the wall where they were embedded. "We'll take this one with us now, but we'll leave the other one _in situ_. The police forensic experts might want to see it in place."

"The police? You want to tell the cops about this?" Laura sounded surprised.

"It would be a sucker play not to, sweetheart! That guy just tried to make us sleep the big sleep," said Steele, affecting a Humphrey Bogartish, nasal twang.

"I was thinking about the client. But you're right, maybe we should tell the police," she conceded.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Laura was leaning back in her chair, her feet crossed at the ankle and delicately propped on the corner of her desk, as she read a copy of _Cosmopolitan_. She wore a tan, double breasted Carole Little pant suit. The collar of a dark red blouse peaked out from underneath her jacket, and her feet were adorned with marginally darker tan, mid-height heels. Her hair, slightly backcombed for volume, was up in a soft chignon. Remington's heart pendant was around her neck.

She glanced at the clock on her office wall; it read just before four o'clock. She was a little bored, with nothing to do. Remington was on the telephone in his office, as he had been for most of the afternoon, talking to various contacts, trying to elicit any possible information about pieces of the Aleppo Codex. No one in the art world in LA – amongst the dealers in antiquarian products, gallery owners and the shadier information brokers – had so far been able to offer any help.

"Careful Laura, if you lean any further back, you might tip over," said a voice from her open doorway.

Laura glanced to her right. "John! Hello. Come in, have a seat," she said to Detective John Corey. "Have you got some news for us?"

John Corey was an LAPD cop who had arrested Steele the previous year on suspicion of robbing a diamond exchange located on the tenth story of their building, directly below the offices of Remington Steele Investigations. Steele had eventually been proved innocent, and John Corey had subsequently turned from an antagonist into a friend, one of Remington and Laura's close contacts on the LAPD.

The previous evening, they had decided to report the shooting to him, rather than take pot luck with whoever was the rostered detective catching cases that night. John had been very helpful, immediately opening a case file, dispatching uniforms and the Crime Scene Unit down to the Farmers Market to investigate the shooting. Over the next few hours, the passage in the Farmers Market had been examined for forensics, witnesses had been interviewed about the green Cutlass sedan, and security camera tapes from nearby stalls had been sequestered. Remington and Laura had helped the police as much as they could, and after making their statements, had eventually returned home some time after two o'clock in the morning.

"Where's Remington?" asked John Corey

"He's on the phone in his office. Do you need to speak to him?"

"No, it's okay. I can brief you, Laura; you pass it on." He opened a manila folder he had with him and checked something. "Well…it's quite an interesting situation you and Remington happened onto last night. The lab night shift did a priority job on the forensics and ballistics, and I've got the results here.

"First, the Cutlass Supreme matches the description of one that was stolen in East LA yesterday morning; if we find the car, we might be able to get some prints off of it.

"Second, the newspaper did have prints on it, after we'd used yours for elimination purposes. At least four sets of good, clear identifying prints, but none of them are in the computer. Assume some of them belong to the newspaper seller or, maybe, the delivery driver or something; we can still match the prints to any taken from the gun or car if we find them.

"Third, and most interesting, ballistics came back with an analysis of the bullets. It seems they match those used last year in a robbery-murder perpetrated by a Mexican illegal – a drive-by shooting with associated larceny. Now we caught the guy; there were a lot of witnesses and traffic camera footage of the incident, so it was pretty much a slam-dunk, and he's doing thirty to life in Folsom. But the interesting thing is that we never found the gun; we thought he had ditched it. But apparently, it's still out there circulating; and the obvious inference is that it may be circulating amongst illegal aliens or perhaps gang members."

"That is really useful John, thanks. Thinking about it, the guy who shot at us last night could have been Hispanic; he was definitely not white. And if the car was stolen in East LA…well, it's a stretch, but maybe it's another clue pointing towards a Hispanic perp?"

"Sure. Now Laura, it's time for you to give. I know you and Remington lead an exciting, glamorous life and all, but people do not get shot while out shopping for organic produce. What case are you working on that this incident is linked to?"

"You're not asking us to betray client confidentiality, are you, John?" queried Remington Steele, from the connecting doorway where he had suddenly appeared. He strode up and shook John Corey's hand, then went and stood behind Laura. He adopted a familiar pose, the tails of his jacket flung back and his hands resting in the small of his back with his elbows thrust out.

Laura jumped in, "Look John, we play straight with you, you know that. Yes, the shooting is linked to one of our cases; we are trying to recover an object for somebody, but that person and that object have no links to Mexico. We're honestly as puzzled about who the shooter is as you are, and as to what their motive might be. But we promise, if we find out any relevant information, we'll share it with you, okay?"

Corey rose from the chair, and headed towards the door. "Sure thing, Laura. If you find out anything, let me know, and I'll do likewise. My next step will be to send someone to Folsom to interview the perp, see if we can find out from him what he did with the gun. I'll see you around Laura, Remington."

After John had left, Steele took the chair he had vacated. Laura briefed him about the detective's information. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Basically, we wait. Either your art world connections, or Rabbi Meldola, might come through. But I want to know more about this shooter. I don't like your having a target on your back."

"Ah, neither do I, Laura – neither do I. Just a thought, but you don't suppose Fouad has hired this fellow, do you?"

"Fouad? What motive would he have for hiring an assassin? We're working for him! No, it's much more likely this guy is, or works for, a rival of his – perhaps another Jewish businessman."

"I don't know…maybe Fouad has hired others to find the Codex, and we're just a diversion?" theorized Steele. "Or maybe Fouad does not really want to find the Codex? Suppose he feels under some family obligation to search for it? – maybe his mother is forcing him to do it for devout reasons – but he doesn't actually want to spend millions of his dollars, so he hires us to search for it, and if we get too close, hires a gunman to knock us off?"

Laura laughed. "There's a Jewish mother joke in there somewhere…But I cannot buy your theory, it's far too…Machiavellian. Only you could have come up with it."

"Laura! I'm hurt. Do you think me so conniving?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Laura asked, in a contemplative tone.

Steele looked more than slightly chagrined as he held up his hands in a pacifying manner. "Perhaps not…well, I'll go and call Fouad, and have a chat to see if I can pump him about who any rivals might be that are going after the Codex – if he has any. And I'll ask him to stick around a few more days."

"Why?"

"Well, he was originally due to leave on Sunday, but Rabbi Meldola will not even get back to us until then. If any fragments of the Codex turn up, Fouad should be around next week to undertake the negotiations and the purchase."

"Uh-huh, good point. Listen, when you've finished talking to him, let's go home, Remington. I sent Mildred home already, and there's not much going on here. We can have some time to ourselves."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The summer sun streamed in through the partially-curtained windows of the Steeles' bedroom. Remington Steele slowly awoke and stared at the ceiling, getting his bearings for a few seconds. He turned his head and looked at the bedside clock; it was just past ten in the morning. Steele turned his head the other way, and saw Laura asleep beside him.

For some unknown reason, they had settled into a pattern opposite to most couples, and Laura slept on the right hand side of their bed while Steele had the left hand side. Maybe it had been some sort of subconscious feminist gesture, he thought. Now, looking to his right, he saw Laura lying on her stomach, still rather dead to the world. She had thrown one arm up above her head, the other was by her side. The bedclothes had been pushed off of the top half of her body, exposing the yellow, Chinese-style silk pajamas which she wore.

Without raising his head, Steele looked at the expanse of her silk covered back, melding into the upraised curve of her bottom, partially obscured by the bunched-up bedclothes. Her pajama jacket had ridden up, and the naked skin at the small of her back was deliciously exposed. Steele wanted to reach out and touch it, but held off; he didn't want to wake her. He felt sensually sated anyway, as they had made love the previous night. And it was rare that Laura, with her Protestant work ethic, allowed herself the luxury of a lie-in; Steele wasn't sure, but he thought that this might be the first time since they had married that he had awoken before her.

He rolled out of bed gently, put on his leather slippers and a silk Sulka robe over the cotton, striped pajamas he was wearing, which he had bought in Jermyn Street. His night clothes, like almost everything else, tended to the traditional – he looked a little like a schoolboy at an old fashioned boarding school, very different from most people who these days slept in jogging pants and old T-shirts. He took a quick swig of mouthwash in the bathroom, then tiptoed out of the bedroom without waking Laura, and closed the door behind him.

Steele opened the terrace doors and let Nero out to wander amongst the rooftops and parapets. In the kitchen, he made a large pot of coffee, took a mug into the living room, then opened the door of the apartment and collected the enormous Sunday edition of the _Los Angeles Times_, which was lying in the hallway. Steele had made a special arrangement with the fellows in the building reception – while residents' newspapers were normally delivered only to their mailboxes in the first floor lobby, one of the concierges would bring his weekend paper up to the apartment. For this favor, Steele tipped the doormen extra generously every Christmas.

He settled on the couch with coffee and newspaper.

Some time later, the bedroom door opened and Laura padded barefoot into the room. She had no robe, and the yellow pajamas shone in the bright sunlight. She still looked a little sleepy, and her mussed hair actually made her look more adorable than usual. Rather unceremoniously, she sat sideways on Steele's lap, curling one arm around his neck and picking up his coffee mug with the other.

"Good morning, Laura," he said cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

"Hmm…wonderful. I don't think I've slept so contentedly for a long time," she answered, sipping Remington's coffee.

"Well, it's a glorious morning." Remington curled one arm around her waist, and started rubbing the small of her back, making contact with that particular spot that he had wanted to touch earlier. "How about some breakfast?"

"You don't have to cook all the time, you know," she replied. "I'll make it. Or we can each get our own breakfast, at least – you didn't have to wait for me."

A slight frown creased his face, "Come on, Laura! What would be the point of living with someone if you did everything separately? Anyway, I wasn't so hungry that I couldn't wait until you awoke."

"Thank you." Laura's mouth met his in a gentle, passionate kiss for several seconds. "Let me make breakfast, at least. I don't think I've cooked since I moved in."

"So? I enjoy cooking. And I am not too bad at it, I'd flatter myself to say."

"You _enjoy_ it? God, I don't like cooking at all – I've really only ever done it because I needed to eat…something," she grinned impishly, her dark eyes filled with amused warmth.

"Well, there you go. It's merely the logical division of labor, Laura, as advocated by Adam Smith," replied Steele. "It makes sense that I should cook, and you do…whatever it is you're good at." With that, Steele tumbled Laura off his lap onto the couch and glided away to the kitchen. Laura already missed his presence as she tucked her legs under her and reached for Steele's coffee mug.

Steele put two copper pans onto the stove, bringing water up to boil in one and gently melting butter in the other. He broke three egg yolks into a glass bowl, squeezed some fresh lemon juice in with them, and then held the bowl over the bubbling pot of water, creating a _bain marie_. He carefully used the indirect heat to cook the egg yolks while he whisked them vigorously. When the yolks had formed into a smooth consistency, he slowly drizzled in the melted butter, whisking constantly until a rich sauce had formed.

Steele then added some vinegar into the same pot of water, which was still on the burner, and swirled a spoon in a circular motion, creating a vortex. He carefully cracked two extra large eggs into the water to poach. Meanwhile, he split two English muffins, which he had bought from an artisan bakery on LarchmontBoulevard, and put them under the hot grill to toast. When the eggs were just done, he placed the toasted muffins on two china plates, topped them with very generous servings of smoked salmon from the refrigerator, then with the poached eggs, and finally drizzled the velvety yellow sauce over the top.

Steele took the plates out to the dining room. He saw Laura curled up on the couch reading the newspaper. "Something to eat, hmm?" he asked.

"Oh yes, I'm starving," she replied, throwing aside the paper and scampering over to the dining table. "What delicacies have you got for me, Mr Steele?"

"Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon," said Steele, laying two places and then setting the plates down. "Don't wait, do tuck in." He disappeared into the kitchen briefly to get himself a fresh cup of coffee, before reappearing.

Laura settled into one of the chairs, sprinkled salt and pepper over her breakfast and attacked it heartily. It was heavenly – the soft, organic egg yolk bleeding into the spicier hollandaise and merging with the tart smoked salmon. It was so good, she actually closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on the flavors in her mouth. Steele, watching her as he ate his own breakfast, was secretly gratified; it gave him pleasure to see Laura, who was normally so controlled – except for her temper – indulge herself so sensually.

After breakfast, Steele and Laura continued to enjoy an idyllic Sunday. The hot sun streamed in through the vast picture window, and neither Steele nor Laura were in a hurry to get dressed. They lounged around in their nightwear, a fresh pot of coffee having been brewed, Laura on the couch with her feet up, making her way through the many sections of the newspaper, while Steele was on the floor, his back resting against the seat of the couch, poring over Ben Hogan's _The Modern Fundamentals of Golf_.

Occasionally, Laura would lean over and run her hand through his hair or kiss the top of his head as she read. At one point, she turned on the stereo system, setting the radio to a classical station which was playing Pollini's recording of all twenty-four Chopin preludes. Laura lost herself in the romantic piano music.

Well past noon, the telephone rang, and after Steele had answered it with his invariable 'Steele here' greeting, he recognized the voice of Rabbi Meldola.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Laura, who was driving, parked the Auburn outside the rabbi's home in North Hollywood, then she and Steele walked up the path to the front door. Steele wore Italian shoes, gray pants, a formal cornflower blue shirt with cuff links and a blue nautical blazer with gold buttons; his only concession to it being Sunday evident in his open collar and lack of a tie. Laura was dressed in a black, calf-length chiffon 'tea' dress and a pair of black, ballet style flats. The dress had half length sleeves, a somewhat tight fitting bodice and then widened out into a flared skirt. With her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Steele was irresistibly reminded of Audrey Hepburn in _Sabrina_.

Rabbi Meldola opened the door to them, offered them a warm smile and led them directly to his study. As if their arrival had been expected – which it had, of course, since he had called them just over an hour earlier – almost as soon as they had entered the study, there was a knock on the door and a young, dark haired girl came in bearing a tea tray.

"Mr Steele, Mrs Steele, you did not meet my youngest daughter before, I believe," said the rabbi. "This is Miriam – the baby of the family: she is only eight." Remington and Laura smiled at the little girl as she left the room. The tea was poured, then Rabbi Meldola rose and locked the door, before sitting back down behind his desk.

Steele began, "Rabbi, when you called us this afternoon, you said you had some very important news for us. Can we assume that you were successful at your temple, and that some information has come out about the Codex?"

"Oh yes, Mr Steele, that's definitely the case. In fact, that would be an understatement."

"Well, what have you got for us?"

"Let me show you," said Rabbi Meldola. He went over to a table at the side of the room, which was draped with a black cloth. Without ceremony, he pulled the cloth off.

Laura and Steele rose from their chairs to look – and both were temporarily stunned by the sight. "Oh my!" said Remington, rather quietly.

Before them, laid flat on the table, was a large sheet of thick clear perspex about three feet wide and two feet high, and underneath the perspex, sitting side-by-side, could be seen two pages of handwritten, ancient manuscript – pages of the Aleppo Codex. When compared in the mind's eye to the photostated pages which Laura had obtained at UCLA, there could be no doubt that – at least to a layman – the pages looked authentic. Remington looked more closely, and saw that there were in fact two sheets of perspex, with the manuscript pages sandwiched between them.

"Where did you get these, Rabbi Meldola?" burst out Laura, unable to check herself, and temporarily forgetting the possible consequences of speaking so directly to an orthodox, conservative rabbi.

Rabbi Meldola appeared to have enjoyed the effect of his theatrical unveiling. "After you both left my house last week, I immediately began to call members of our temple. Even before the services on Friday, I had reached out to many of the community elders, urging them to come forward, and in turn to urge their own fathers, grandfathers and brothers to come forward if they knew anything.

"On Friday, I spoke almost as a sermon to those who came to temple; I said that if anyone knew of, or possessed any sections of the Codex, they had to come forward – such a document belonged to all Jews, and any man who kept such scriptures from his people would suffer a guilty conscience.

"After that, I am sure the Codex and the hunt for it was the talk of our entire community. Of course, nothing could happen on the Sabbath, and I did not expect it to. To be honest with you, I was not expecting anything to come of the entire business, Mr Steele.

"However, this morning a man, a member of our temple, came to see me. He said that my words had awoken his heart, and then he produced these pages of the Codex."

"Who?" asked Steele.

"I promised I would not reveal who he is, Mr Steele," answered Rabbi Meldola. "I am acting as his intermediary."

"So this man…" continued Steele, "has had these pages of the Codex since it was first broken up in 1947?"

"Yes; he tells me that he was in Aleppo during the period of the great riots, and worshiped at the Central Synagogue. He was on hand when mobs broke into the synagogue, and while others were attempting to flee with the Codex, various parts become detached; he salvaged these two pages as he fled."

"So he thinks there might be other pages somewhere?" asked Laura.

"He tells me he does not have any other pages, and does not know of anyone else who does. But he believes other pages could very well have been saved, just as he rescued these two pages," answered the rabbi. "He has kept the pages as carefully as he could for nearly forty years. For many years the pages were kept between glass, more recently between these plastic sheets. They have always been kept in neutral temperatures and in the dark."

"And why did he come forward now, eh?" asked Remington. "Was it the effect of your words alone?"

"He wants to make his peace with God and make amends for any past mistakes, Mr Steele. As I said to you when we first met, many ordinary people have venerated the Codex as an object itself; it is only now that this man no longer wishes to keep it for himself but wishes to do the right thing…to see it returned to Israel."

"And how much is the price?"

"Nothing. There is no price."

"What? Surely, Rabbi, that cannot be? Why has the man kept these pages for so long if not to make a gain?"

"Mr Steele, perhaps you cannot understand. As I told you, he kept them for reasons of religious piety, if you like – although you might also call it religious superstition, that having the pages would bring him luck. Now he realizes keeping them was wrong. He only wishes to make amends."

Rabbi Meldola, Steele and Laura returned to their seats and resumed drinking their tea. All seemed lost in their thoughts for a few minutes, overwhelmed by the importance of the artifacts sitting just a few feet away under their black cloth cover.

Steele, a man of a hundred different mannerisms, had subconsciously brought his left hand up to his mouth and was repeatedly stretching his bottom lip with his fingers. "Rabbi, your shul is in North Hollywood; now, without any disrespect intended towards your temple, would you say that your congregation is very affluent? Do you have all the money that you could use for community events, for example?"

"Mr Steele, it is true that we are not rich people; this is not Bel Air," he smiled.

"Well, Rabbi Meldola, I know that there is no price attached to these two pages of the Codex. But surely, your congregation would welcome a charitable donation from a Jew who has become very successful in life? Would a donation from Mr Fouad not be welcome, at any time?"

Rabbi Meldola smiled. "Mr Steele, we have so many worthwhile projects and plans for our temple and our community. Charity – truly heartfelt charity – is always welcome."

"Well Rabbi," said Steele, a gloriously conspiratorial smile on his face, "let me assure you that, within a few days, Mr Fouad will wish to make a charitable contribution to your temple of, say, $200,000…I know that he is a pious man, who escaped from Aleppo himself, and always wishes to help his countrymen following his good fortune."

"Good men have a moral impulse towards charity, Mr Steele," said Rabbi Meldola.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

As she piloted the Auburn back towards North Rossmore Avenue, Laura subconsciously drove far more carefully than her typical, extremely vigorous, style. The thought of the historical value of the two sheets of perspex in the Auburn's trunk had an inhibiting effect on her.

Remington had been silent for the last few minutes, tugging at his earlobe, lost in thought. Suddenly, he piped up, "Have you ever thought about the Venus Flytrap, Laura?"

"Erm…not much."

"Remarkable plant. I'm sure you must know, it gives off a chemical that smells like rotting meat – absolutely manna from heaven to a fly…They are attracted to the smell and then," Steele clapped his hands together loudly, "BANG…the trap closes and there's one less fly."

"I know, Mr Steele…"

"Well, Mrs Steele, it seems to me that in this little puzzle we've been dealing with, there remains one fly we've yet to catch. So I think we need to get ourselves a Venus Flytrap, don't you?"

The light dawned for Laura, and she grinned one of her megawatt grins at Remington, taking her eyes off the road for a fraction of a second too long before looking forwards again. It was at moments like this, when they both thought alike, and were riffing off of each other, as Mildred put it, that Laura remembered that she loved Remington – she actually loved him.

"I think I see what you have in mind, Mr Steele," she said. "Hmm…to the office, then?"

"To the office, Mrs Steele – let's prepare some fertile ground for our Venus Flytrap," grinned Remington, as Laura turned the car and headed in the direction of Century City.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Steele and Laura sat side by side on the couch in his office, reading the afternoon edition of the _Los Angeles Herald-Examiner_ for Monday 7th July 1986.

Splashed across the front page center was a headline, 'STEELE AT IT', and below that was a picture of Remington Steele shaking hands with Amram Fouad, symbolically handing over the large perspex sheets that sandwiched two pages of the Aleppo Codex. Steele and Fouad were flanked by Laura and an Israeli consular official.

"Well, you made the front page again, Mr Steele," said Laura.

Mildred appeared at the doorway. "Oh, Boss, let me see please?" she implored, coming over and standing next to Steele and Laura. "What does it say?"

"Pretty much the full story," said Laura, scan reading the text. "Noted private investigator Remington Steele…recently married to detective Laura Steele – that's me!…Hastily-called press conference this morning…announcement…recovered two pages…thought destroyed…Aleppo Codex…Potentially priceless…Mr Amram Fouad of Brazil…Yet to be authenticated…Donated to Hebrew University of Jerusalem…Document stored under lock and key in his office…Ready for shipment to Israel…probably on Tuesday…State Department permission...etc. etc."

After Mildred had left, Steele said, "Well, I'm glad you were mentioned in the story, Laura."

"Yes, as your wife, the newly-married Mrs Steele."

"No, no, look, you're in the photograph with Fouad and me. And the story definitely refers to detectives Remington Steele and Laura Steele – detectives plural, with an 's'. I think you're getting your dues at last!"

"Hmm..." Laura was unconvinced.

"And believe me, Laura, from now on, I'm going to ensure you get the credit you deserve. For far too long, you've remained in the shadows, but there's no reason to anymore. I'm going to ensure that if I'm in the newspaper, then you'll be by my side. We must be partners!"

Laura smiled at his enthusiasm. "That's sweet of you, offering to be my booster, but really, the newspapers don't work like that. And anyway, I don't need the adulation."

"Are you sure, Laura? It seems to me you've rather resented being in the shadows the last few years."

"Maybe sometimes. But at other times, I haven't, I think. It rather depends on my mood and on everything else. When you walked into this place and we struck our deal, I knew what I was getting into – well, at least in terms of publicity. We are partners, but you're the natural publicity magnet. And that's okay – as long as you behave yourself!"

"Anyway, the story here accomplishes what we wanted it to, wouldn't you say?"

"Ask me tomorrow, Mr Steele."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Just after eight o'clock in the evening, a man appeared in the corridor outside the offices of Remington Steele Investigations. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, he had been hiding in the bathrooms on the thirteenth floor of the Century Plaza Towers, waiting for the offices to empty and the workers to go home. Now, checking to see that this part of the eleventh floor was clear, he took out an electric handheld drill, crouched down and proceeded to drill the lock on the agency door. When the lock's mechanism was destroyed, he pushed back the bolt, entered the outer office, and pulled out a small flashlight.

Getting his bearings, he strode quickly to Remington Steele's office and opened the door. The room was in darkness. He shone the light around, then had started walking towards the desk when the light from Steele's executive bathroom came on, and Steele appeared, framed in the doorway.

"Lost your way, old chap?" he asked.

The intruder was taken by surprise, but reacted quickly, pulling out a revolver and pointing it at Steele, who was silhouetted in the light from his bathroom. At this distance, the gunman could not miss. Steele put his hands up. Suddenly, the office was flooded with light, temporarily blinding both the gunman and Steele. Detective John Corey took two quick strides into the room and shoved his gun into the intruder's back before he could react. A uniformed cop stepped through the connecting door from Laura's office and pointed his gun at the intruder's head. The gunman dropped his gun on the floor and raised his hands.

Laura and Amram Fouad appeared in the bathroom doorway behind Steele. "Is it over?" she asked.

"Yeah, Laura, we got him," replied John, as the uniformed officer handcuffed the intruder, then proceeded to lean him against the wall and body search him. John picked up the gun from the floor using a latex glove, and placed it inside a plastic evidence bag.

"Why don't we all sit down, eh?" said Steele. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I could use a drink."

Fouad and Corey sat down on the couch. Fouad declined alcohol and Corey was on duty, so Laura poured them both ginger ales, while Steele poured cognacs for the two of them.

"Well," said Corey, "we've got this guy dead to rights on B & E and threatening behavior using a firearm. But that's just the beginning. With luck, this gun will match the one that shot at you two at the Farmers Market, and if the prints match the newspaper, then it's a slam-dunk. Can you identify him as the man that fired at you?" he asked Steele.

"Ah, no doubt about it."

"Well then, that makes it more or less a certainty anyway, with your testimony that he's the shooter, even if he used a different gun."

"He's not reacting at all," pointed out Laura. "Do you think he understands English?"

"Who knows? Some of these street banditos are tough, tough guys. But we'll get the translator in and run him through all the evidence in the next couple of days, make sure he knows he's going away for a really long stretch, and then see if he wants to make a deal," replied John.

"The man who called me on the phone definitely spoke English," noted Steele.

Amram Fouad, who had been silent thus far, now spoke up. "Mr Steele, please forgive me, but I do not understand what is going on here."

"Mr Fouad, this man came here to steal the pages of the Codex which he thought were being kept in our office. We laid a trap for him. After the press conference this morning, the story about the rediscovered Codex pages was printed in the local newspapers, and we made sure that enough information was released – that the Codex was being kept here for one day and would be shipped to Israel tomorrow – to force this man to attempt the robbery tonight."

"I see. But who is this man?"

"Oh, he's probably just a hired hand, Mr Fouad," said John Corey. "A Mexican, we suspect, probably an illegal alien who entered the country just to do this job – to steal the Codex pages and kill anyone who got in his way."

"Who is he working for?" asked Fouad, still puzzled.

Remington replied, "Well that is the key question, Mr Fouad. I am sorry to say, we suspect that he works for your brother, Abi Fouad."

"Abi Fouad? What makes you think this?"

"Well, firstly there is the Mexico connection: your brother is, after all, the head of your family's business interests in Mexico, and if this man proves, as we suspect, to be Mexican, it will be of significance. The key will be, however, if this man talks and tells the police who hired him."

"Is that all, Mr Steele – a potential connection to Mexico?"

"No, Mr Fouad, there is more. You see, even though this story appeared in today's evening newspaper, and on the television news…" Steele indicated the copy of the _Herald-Examiner_ that was still on the coffee table in front of them, "we could not be sure that the gunman would see it, or that he understood English. So we conducted a ruse. Yesterday, we sent a telex to your offices in Mexico, indicating that the Codex was being held in our office under lock and key. The message was worded as if you had left Los Angeles, and our agency was trying to catch up with you to pass the information on – something along the lines of, 'If Amram Fouad stops at the Mexico office, please tell him Remington Steele has obtained the Codex'. Of course, any such message would have been taken by the telex operators directly to your brother, and he would have known we had the fragments."

"It still seems circumstantial only, would you not say so, Mr Steele?"

"Yes, perhaps. As I said, these are only our suspicions. Perhaps only a direct conversation asking your brother whether he hired this gunman will provide an answer. Or alternatively, if this gunman indicates who hired him. Our agency's job was to recover any pieces of the Codex, Mr Fouad – which we've done. Catching this gunman was a secondary matter. Who hired him is not really of concern to us. But we wanted to inform you of our suspicions; how you use that information is up to you…it is, undoubtedly, a sensitive family matter."

Laura came into the conversation for the first time, "However, Mr Fouad, if your brother is officially implicated, then it becomes a matter for Detective Corey, here. This man…" she nodded, indicating the intruder, "carried out several serious crimes on US soil; if your brother is implicated as his accomplice, it will be up to the official authorities to decide how to proceed."

"I will need to talk to you some more, Mr Fouad," said John. "Please do not leave town until I have, okay?"

"Of course, Detective."

"In that case, I'll be going," said John, rising and moving towards the exit, accompanied by the uniformed cop and the intruder. "I'll speak to you soon Laura, Remington. Good night."

Steele and Laura wished John good night, then turned to a relieved Amram Fouad. "Well, I think that concludes our business, Mr Steele, except for one thing."

"Yes, Mr Fouad. The actual pages of the Codex are at this moment safely held in the Federal Building downtown. Once permission is granted by the State Department for their export, they will be placed into the custody of the Israeli consulate. It will be the Government of Israel's responsibility to ensure the pages are safely shipped to the Hebrew University.

"After you've spoken to Detective Corey, I am sure you will be free to return home. Of course, there will be a large amount of publicity concerning this incident, and no doubt that publicity will follow you to Rio de Janeiro very quickly."

"Thank you Mr Steele. Yes, I am expecting it, but that is not the reason I did it."

"Of course not, Mr Fouad."

"Now Mr Steele…and Mrs Steele, you have my profound thanks," said Fouad, taking out his checkbook. He proceeded to write a check, which he tore off and passed to Laura. It was for $220,000. "That covers the agreed price of the Codex pages, and an extra ten per cent for your agency – I think this is the usual amount?"

"Thank you, Mr Fouad, that is correct." Remington glanced towards the door, where Fred had appeared out of nowhere. "Ah, Fred! Would you be kind enough to drive Mr Fouad back to the Bonaventure, please? And then head on home yourself."

Fouad stood, nodded to Steele and to Laura, and then accompanied Fred out of the office.

When they were finally alone, Laura and Steele sat down next to each other, half facing one another, and sipped their brandies. Laura ran her hand through Remington's hair, then leaned forward and kissed him. "All in all, an excellent result, Mr Steele," she said.

"Forty thousand dollars…not too shabby, as we used to say in London argot, Mrs Steele."

"That's an understatement, I'd venture," replied Laura. "Today the news was only local, but do you realize how big this will be once it becomes national, or international? It'll be bigger than the Hapsburg Dagger case. You – we – recovered two pages of the Aleppo Codex! Remington, I'd prepare yourself…"

"Just imagine it, Laura. _The Washington Post_, _Le Monde_, _The Times_…maybe even _Newsweek_ or the networks! Perhaps we'll be interviewed by Dan Rather and appear on the _CBS Evening News_, eh?"

Laura chuckled, "Could be, Remington, could be – although if it happens, I might pass on the last one. I don't think I want to be on television after what happened with Windsor Thomas. And I'm not sure how I would feel if my mother saw me on the small screen!"

Steele leaned forward and kissed her. "You know, Laura, it just shows how good we are together. Your inspiration about approaching Rabbi Meldola was the crux of this case."

"Ah, but your multilingual charm was what had everyone working together towards the final result, wasn't it? – Fouad, John, even the rabbi."

"True, Laura, true…"

"You know, Mr Steele," said Laura, running her hand through Remington's supernaturally thick, black hair yet again, "with your looks and my brains, we could really go places!"


End file.
